


rose through the blue

by MissFaber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, around seasons 3 and 4 before the purple wedding, dreamy vignettes of the time Sansa and Margaery spend together in King's Landing, it's getting super emo up in here, show verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27581203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaber/pseuds/MissFaber
Summary: King’s Landing sits in a hazy purgatory, and so does Sansa Stark. She and the almost-queen Margaery Tyrell find something resembling peace together. But all good things— brittle, beautiful— must end.
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 14
Kudos: 49
Collections: Sansaery





	rose through the blue

**Author's Note:**

> [check out the photoset you know the vibes](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/634891615425724416/rose-through-the-blue-a-canon-verse)

On the edge of the parapet, Margaery stands on Joffrey’s arm, expression beatific and peaceful, and waves. The people of King’s Landing roar, and her grin grows wider. Margaery draws people and their adoration to her as honey draws flies. Sansa watches her, radiant, with a face that shows nothing. She’s become quite good at that.

Later, Margaery trails after Joffrey and his entourage down the hall, and Sansa’s stomach clenches. But Joffrey— thankfully, blissfully—doesn’t notice her.

Margaery does. “What a lovely dress,” she says. A wisp of rosewater and moist earth.

Four words, and Sansa’s insides quiver. “Thank you, my lady.”

But she’s already passed, and Sansa has only whispered the reply, anyway.

Shae appears at her elbow in the completely silent way that only servants can master. Together they stand and watch the brilliant, bleeding reds and violets of the dying sun.

“This is for you.” Shae gives her a pink rose, so perfect it doesn’t look real. Sansa rolls the stem between her fingertips gingerly before sweeping the petals softly against her cheek. Almost a kiss.

“You have to get better.” Shae’s voice drops to a whisper meant for Sansa’s ears alone. “The queen’s eyes are sharp.”

“Queen Mother,” Sansa corrects. It’s not quite hope.

* * *

“White lilies,” Margaery whispers that night as she kisses the underside of her breast. “Honey.”

Sansa lays her head back and whimpers. Tears prickle her eyes and roll into her hair. She can only be naked here, in more ways than one. And she has an endless well of tears.

* * *

At dinner—a forced, private hell with Joffrey, Tyrion, and Margaery— Sansa picks at her meal listlessly and counts the minutes until Joffrey excuses them. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem too taken with her tonight, choosing instead to poke and prod at Tyrion, who responds by drowning his bitterness in drink.

On Joffrey’s right, Margaery’s eyes burn with apology. Sansa can only smile tightly back at her. _You have to be better,_ Shae’s words skip across her mind, and avoids Margaery’s gaze completely. Cersei isn’t the only one with sharp eyes, isn’t the only one who would seize this chance to destroy her.

Later, when Shae gives her another rose, Sansa slips from her husband’s chambers as soon as drink has claimed him. She slinks silently across the keep to where Margaery waits.

* * *

“Purgatory,” Sansa whispers, well-sated and caught in the hazy area between sleep and waking. Delirium.

A single candle burns, illuminating the chestnut in Margaery’s hair, spilling across her body. “It will get better.”

Sansa lowers her head to meet her gaze. “Purgatory between one hell and another.”

“Don’t say that.” A sharp plea muttered before Margaery pulls Sansa’s hand harshly to her lips, kisses the tip of each finger tenderly. “The place you go next may not be heaven, but it _will_ be better than here.”

Sansa’s lip quivers. “Hope leads to heartbreak.”

“When I am queen, I will annul your marriage. I’ll find you a better situation, I promise.”

A dark, bitter imitation of a smile. “You’ve made promises before. I’ve learned not to trust them.”

Hurt flashes across Margaery’s face, then takes root in her eyes.

“I understand why you doubt that. Doubt _me_. I understand.” Listless now, Margaery sits up in bed, buries her head in her hands. “I wanted to help you. I want to save you, now more than ever. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see?”

Hope is a dying bird beating its wings weakly against her ribcage. No one would save her, no white knight and certainly no queen of Westeros. Even Margaery.

Gently, Sansa pulls Margaery back against the pillows. She presses an open kiss to her throat. Apology, forgiveness.

“This is the only peace I know,” Sansa says, and tastes heaven between Margaery’s thighs.

* * *

When Cersei requests a private meal with Sansa—not a request at all, but a command—Sansa knows there had been truth in her words, a knowledge that sinks into her weary bones. There is always a new, fresh hell waiting below, waiting to emerge through the stone and lick at her heels.

“Come with me,” Sansa pleads as Shae runs a pearl hairbrush through her hair. _I’m afraid._ A thing unsaid, but easily read in her eyes.

“I want to.” Sansa hears the truth in Shae’s voice; she is afraid, too, for her. “But I’m afraid it would be more suspicious if I come. There is no place for me.”

“There is too,” Sansa pushes, feeling a surprising spike of delight as she begged like a child. It’s been a long time since she felt anything but worn beyond her years. “Come, you can pour my wine.”

Shae shakes her head, impatient. “They have servants for that.”

But Sansa wins in the end, even if Shae only arrives halfway through the dreaded dinner with Cersei. Sansa supposes it works out in their favor, as Shae’s appearance seems natural, disguised with a message from Tyrion.

Cersei nods, apparently satisfied, running narrowed eyes over Sansa once more. “You seem fuller,” she notes, tone careful and slow. “Satisfied. I suppose my brother is handling you, though I’ll admit I didn’t imagine him capable.”

The violet hollows beneath her eyes tell another tale, but Sansa bites through the tough meat and allows Cersei to have her petty, imagined triumph.

Shae’s steady hands pour another glass of water, and Sansa doesn’t see the rose hidden in the folds of her dress until the last candle has been blown out.

* * *

“You know…” Margaery’s breath is a cool shock on Sansa’s wet folds, drawing a gasp from her. “I don’t believe I’d had northern food before you.”

A sharp jab of her tongue, quickly withdrawn, leaving Sansa begging. Panting like a horse. She squirms against Margaery’s mouth, pushing her hips forward—but Margaery denies her, wickedly, and Sansa groans, squeezing her eyes shut. An arm thrown over her face.

“Look at me.”

So Sansa does. She sees a crown of woven branches, eyes like a doe’s although Margaery is anything but prey. Lips glistening with her wetness. Wrecked.

“Remember that? The first time?” That _voice—_ liquid allure, her undoing on that day and every day since. “Remember how uncomfortable you were, how you kept closing your eyes? But you watched, like you’re watching now, and it made it _better…”_ A long, slow lick. “Didn’t it?”

“Yes,” she whimpers, helpless. _More, more please._

“Say it.”

She knows Sansa in the strangest, most intimate of ways, like the closeness of a corset pinching her ribs. “More, more _please.”_

“Look at me,” Margaery rasps as she lowers her head. “Don’t ever stop looking.”

Her tongue is a marvel, drawing pleasure where Sansa had known none. Until her. Slim fingers, one, then two sliding effortlessly in. Lips shifting to her clit—sucking it, kissing it, swirling her tongue around it. Leaving it. Sansa throws her head back, helpless, a leaf blowing in the winds.

_“Look at me.”_

Looking, hearing, _feeling_ —it was all too much, the image of Margaery’s mussed locks between her legs, the obscene sounds of Margaery’s mouth, the lapping of her tongue, shorter, _firmer—_

“Not yet.” Margaery pulls back just as the wave crests, leaving Sansa unmoored and shaking.

“No, no, _please—”_

“That’s it,” Margaery grins. “Beg me.”

“You’re wicked,” Sansa breathes.

“And you’re desperate.” Margaery’s fingers dance over Sansa’s thighs, leaving trembling muscles in their wake. “Ask me. _Command_ me.”

Sansa groans. “Make me come.”

“Oh, I will.”

A shudder rips through her at the low, total certainty. Her cunt clenches, aching, empty. “Please, oh gods, please. _Now.”_

“Let go,” Margaery whispers as she bows her head, pressing soft kisses to the skin of Sansa’s belly. “Fall apart. I’ll put you back together…”

 _Trust._ Too hard to do, too much to ask—and yet a wall falls away, crumbling down and leaving Sansa raw. Margaery’s head tilts up, meeting her own—she senses the shift, _knows_ it. Her eyes dilate with hunger.

Nimble fingers, devious tongue. Hips writhing. Margaery blows on her clit, making Sansa scream.

“That’s it. That’s it.”

“Oh—oh gods—”

The wave trembles on the cusp, threatening to crush her. It’s more than their coupling has ever been, more than any of the nights they’ve shared.

“I have you,” Margaery’s voice promises from somewhere far away, from another world where things are pure and whole. Her voice is an anchor. “Let go, Sansa, _I have you—”_

Sansa lets herself believe it, just for a moment, and bites a scream into her arm as the world inks black.

* * *

Sansa blinks awake to a softly golden world, where Margaery is dragging a rose-scented cloth on Sansa’s sweat-damp skin.

“You were so good.” Margaery eyes sparkle with emotion. “So good.”

“I did what you said.” She feels thoroughly undone, and as her mind drifts somewhere above, her lips are set free. “I believed you.”

Margaery’s hand stutters. Sansa reaches for it, lightning quick and desperate. _Desperate._ Isn’t that the word Margaery had used?

“This isn’t a game.” Her eyes burn with wordless pleas she knows Margaery will understand. “I wasn’t playing.”

Margaery’s other hand comes up to cradle her cheek. “Darling… As long as you’re here, you must _never stop playing.”_

The harsh words and their many implications would gut her, were it not for the care in Margaery’s eyes, the rampant worry. “Promise me,” she demands.

Heart breaking, Sansa turns onto her side, pretends to fall asleep.

* * *

In the gardens, Sansa and Margaery walk arm in arm. Shae trails after with Margaery’s handmaidens. Unease twists in her gut—Sansa glances back, catching a glimpse of Shae’s amber dress and dark hair. She almost wishes she was back there with her. Sometimes, Shae’s presence feels like the only safe place there is.

“What’s wrong, sweet one?”

Sansa’s breath catches. There are certainly others milling about, enjoying the mild day. “Shouldn’t we be careful?”

“It would be strange not to spend time together. We’re still almost sisters, after all.”

A twisted mockery of what had once been a sweet dream. Sansa pushes that hope down, tries to focus on the immediate present. The fragrant perfume of flowers and soil, like the embrace of a thousand Margaerys. 

“Then why the roses?”

Margaery doesn’t answer, too preoccupied in waving to someone across the garden. “I see,” Sansa says wryly, suddenly eager to hurt as she has been hurt. “Balance.”

“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” Margaery says through the wide, diplomatic smile she still wears.

“It would be too unbecoming of you to speak to me directly every time you’d like to lick my cunt, for the urge strikes you too often.”

Margaery draws back from her, quick and sudden as though burned.

“You don’t have a monopoly on suffering,” Margaery seethes, the edge blunted by hurt. “Or loss, or _feeling,_ or—” Her voice breaks. “Tenderness.”

“What do _you_ know of loss?” The blow lands before Sansa can hold it back, and Margaery shakes in the wake of it.

A sardonic smile twists Margaery's mouth. Her gaze turns downwards, so that when she speaks her next words they are sent to the soil. “I didn’t have love for any of them, you know. Any of the men or women I had to give myself to, lie to, use to get here. Pawns, every last one of them. Barely human.”

 _I don’t believe that,_ Sansa thinks, overwhelmed by guilt even as Margaery lifts her gaze to hers, scattering her thoughts.

“Don’t you know I would if I could?” The words, brittle, shake through the space between them. “Don’t you know this is true?”

It has become her greatest fear. It means she’s fashioned a pretty prison for herself, complete with gold bars. Trembling with this resounding, new horror, Sansa picks up her skirts and runs. She does not hear a single call of her name.

* * *

Margaery finds her later, slipping wordlessly into her chamber just as Sansa starts to strip her robe and step into the bath. Sansa jumps at the shock of her, then forces her eyes to harden. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Shae is distracting your husband. Though my understanding is that he shouldn’t be here when you bathe,” Margaery frowns. “We won’t be disturbed.”

Sansa gathers her hands at the small of her back, lets them make tiny, useless fists. Relishes in the bite of her nails into the flesh of her palms. “Is there something you wanted, my lady?”

Agitation flashes across her face. “I came to say I’m sorry. Though I don’t quite know what for.”

Sansa nods as graciously as she’s able. “I’d like to return to my bath now.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been careless.” Margaery’s hands twist together before her, an uncertain gesture she’s unaccustomed to seeing. “I didn’t want to cause you more pain. Only to ease it.”

“And you?” Sansa lifts her chin and stares down her nose. She is a Stark noblewoman in her own right, capable of making anyone feel small. Even a Tyrell. Even a future queen. “Are you hurting?”

A nod, a defeat. “More than you know.”

It isn’t a victory—it’s a collapse in her chest. “Then this is doomed.”

Margaery nods again—slower, sadder. “It always was.”

“Always a fool.” Tears, shameful and hot, trail down her cold cheeks. “I let myself think there was some kind of hope for us. When you were always going to marry Joffrey, leave your chambers and share his. And that would have been the most merciful of endings.”

Margaery steps to her, cups her face in both her hands. “You can’t stay here, Sansa. You’re meant for better.”

The tears continue to fall, sliding into Margaery’s fingers. She leans in, holding Sansa tight against her.

“Wolf woman,” she hisses. “That’s what they’ll call you one day. There’s no such future here for you.”

Sansa screws her eyes shut against the overwhelming feelings—pain, pride. “Leave, leave for me,” Margaery whispers.

“But you won’t?”

Margaery’s eyes fill. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Affection stabs Sansa, sudden and fierce. “It’s not true, what you said before in the gardens. You _do_ care. That’s what separates you from Cersei. That’s what might give the people a chance.”

Two soft kisses pressed to Sansa’s closed eyelids. “You have such a special way of looking at the world—still, even now. Don’t let anyone take it from you.”

A road opens before Sansa, wide and uncertain. “No one’s coming for me,” she says desolately. “They’re all gone.”

“Then you will have to leave on your own,” Margaery pushes, always pushing. “When you see an opportunity, take it. Even if it’s a cliff, Sansa, _leap._ ”

They sway silently together, or maybe they’ve been swaying all along. Sansa’s head throbs. Her heart feels both full and empty.

“Stop waiting,” comes the hot whisper in her ear. _“Save yourself.”_

* * *

Margaery writhes in her lap, skewered on three fingers. She lunges forward and takes Sansa’s mouth, where she can still taste herself.

“So good,” she gasps. “Don’t stop.”

After, they lay together, an intertwined mass of limbs. Clammy skin and hummingbird hearts.

Sansa swallows, looks into Margaery’s eyes. “And if I don’t get to say goodbye?”

“We’re saying goodbye now,” Margaery kisses her again, long and sweet. “We say it every night.”

* * *

And when the chance comes, a cliff to jump off of, Sansa takes it. She abandons Margaery on her wedding day. A glorious bride now without a husband.

 _Stay, stay, you should stay—_ an irrational drum beat within reverberated through her limbs. Joffrey was gone. Maybe—maybe now they have a chance. Surely—surely it will be good—better—

_Leave, leave for me._

She looks back, one last time, and sees her prison. She sees the place where her innocence ended, her world forever changed. Torment and tears. And—

And Margaery. Margaery, whose kindness had been unfailing, whose presence changed everything.

She runs forward. She leaves it all behind.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me attttt [tumblr](http://https://missfaber.tumblr.com/)


End file.
